An American Tale
by Eliza Darling
Summary: Kiku may have been his true love, but there are still some parts of Alfred's past he'd rather keep secret for now. This is Alfred's story, with the vampires that meant the most to him. Alfred/various, USUK-centric.
1. Prologue

**Starting something... new, I guess? This was just an excuse to write some more smut, really. Multiple pairings, but mostly USUK centric, since this is Alfred's life pre-Kiku. These are all the secrets he refused to tell, and there are quite a few (which Kiku will find out in the sequel).**

**If you haven't read my other story, "Chrysanthemum Night," I suggest you go back and read it right now so that this story will make more sense.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Only my crappy fanfictions.**

**Prologue**

Until he met Kiku, Alfred had always believed he could not acquire love. He craved it, longed for it, came close to it, but he never had it in his grasp until now. Kiku had bonded to him, and Alfred knew he was destined to keep this love. He could tell Kiku anything and everything, because he felt so _comfortable_ around his new bondmate.

But Alfred didn't tell Kiku everything. He didn't discuss Natalia, the psycho vampyre he was still getting over, even after fifteen years, or how Arthur, his creator, had not only taken his life but his _innocence_ as well. He didn't tell Kiku about his distant infatuation with the already-bonded Ivan, or about the sexy one-night stand he had with Elizaveta while she was still getting over Roderich's bonding to another man.

Alfred glared at Kiku's lithe, sleeping body beside him. Morning was coming fast. The curtains in Kiku's room were drawn; here, Alfred knew he would be safe. He pulled the thick blankets of Kiku's bed over his head and began to doze off, comforted by the warmth of Kiku's body. He hadn't felt the presence of another in his bed in fifteen years, since he was last with Natalia.

One day he'd tell Kiku everything, he vowed as he felt himself falling asleep.

**BLARGH, so short. Gets WAYY longer, I promise. USUK smut next chapter, fangirls!**

**And don't forget to review!**

**~Maggie**


	2. Absolutely Invincible British Gentleman

**First time writing USUK smut. Yeeeeeeyyyyyyyyy, it is probably so fail, since I'm not all that into them. But hey, you can't have America without England, so what the hell. Let them do it like rabbits. Oh and I DID name the chapter after Iggy's song. In fact, all the chapters will be named by songs. DEARR WITH IT, I HAVE NO IMAGINATION AND/OR CREATIVITY.**

**Warnings: virgin sex? And fail writing?**

**Disclaimer: /never gonna own Hetalia.**

**Chapter 1—Absolutely Invincible British Gentleman**

_"The seven seas are like my backyard, romance and plundering."_

He ran.

He ran blindly into the forest, into the bleak, dark night, not caring, not himself. He was numb with pain, his heart weak and broken. Matthew was _dead_. He wore his younger brother's rectangular spectacles as proof, telling Alfred that his brother was never coming back.

He kept running, so deep into the woods where no one would be able to hear him. He knew this. He stopped and felt the pain wash over him, his fists pounding repeatedly into the first tree trunk he could strike, not caring about the blood that emerged from his knuckles.

He screamed and cried and had never felt so much painful emotion at once. His heart wrenched and shattered; his family was _dead_. He was nineteen, a man now, but he felt no older than a small boy. Nineteen with nothing but a barren, new country and his pain.

Tears streaming down his face, he lifted his head up to the bright moon and starry sky. So beautiful. So amazing. What was truly up there? There seemed to be a black abyss of space.

Not a deity.

"_THERE IS NO GOD_," Alfred declared at the top of his lungs, safe from anyone from the colony ever hearing him. God would not put him through such pain and agony. God would not have killed Matthew—sweet, innocent, _darling_ Matthew, only fifteen and rotting somewhere deep in the Atlantic Ocean. Therefore, God did not exist.

He continued sobbing, his hands bruised and bloody against the same tree trunk. Now that the pain had started to subside, he realized he was tired and cold. He should get back to the colony, before anyone—especially his prick of a stepfather who would not even acknowledge his existence anymore—noticed he was gone. He just needed to let his emotions out.

Yes, he'd get back now. He felt much better.

"Well, well, well." Alfred jumped at the sound of such a regal British accent. It was beautiful, like the finest, silkiest red wine. But Alfred couldn't pin-point where the amazing voice was coming from.

"You have such strong convictions for a Christian." Alfred sensed a devilish smirk that went with that sexy chuckle. He was in awe and could not find his voice. He must have looked so dumb, glancing around for a figure he could not see. The dark forest was eerie and haunted and ethereal, like he didn't belong there.

A church-bell laugh. Light and exquisite. "Really, you're too beautiful to be condemned, to die. That neck doesn't deserve to have a rope around it," the voice hummed. Alfred froze underneath the light of the full moon. "But you're right, Alfred. God does not exist. And I can prove it."

"How do you know my name?" Alfred finally found his voice, a timid mewl that feared its life. "And how do you know all these things?"

"I know many things, Alfred." The figure emerged, stepping into the moonlight from the shadows. He was as beautiful as his voice, from his slender physique to his mussed blonde hair, thick, dark eyebrows, debonair smirk, and alluring, hypnotizing green eyes. Alfred lost himself to those amazing eyes, succumbing to them.

"Ask me anything," the man drawled. "I can answer truthfully, I assure you."

Shaking his head, Alfred remembered the beloved family he had just lost. "Who—or _what_—killed Mary Jones and Matthew Williams? My mother and my brother?" he demanded through clenched teeth. "The devil? The Plague?"

That smirk was unmoving, sickening even. "I did," the man answered unemotionally. "Your blood… this _Jones_ blood… It is truly the finest taste the world will never know."

Rage. Blind rage. Matthew's and Mary's murderer. Right there. Alfred attacked blindly, but could not strike. The man was superhuman. He could move far away in the blink of an eye. With each fruitless swing, Alfred lost confidence. He would not avenge his family, for it was impossible. He now knew that.

"Give up?" The man pinned Alfred to the tree he had earlier punched with his strong body. Alfred caught his breath; no one had been so intimate with him before. Their hips and torsos locked together, grinding against each other in blind heat. He lost himself in those eyes again. He couldn't strike this man, even if he had the ability to. He was so beautiful, so close, his hot breath dancing on Alfred's face and neck.

"Do you know what I am?" He leaned down, his lips a mere whisper from Alfred's neck. His accent was so thick and proper and silky. "I am Hell on Earth, the devil himself, a living nightmare." Alfred drowned in his beauty and felt his mind blur. Where was he? There was only this man, this demon. "I drink your blood and refuse to go out in the sun. I am the hybrid between living and dead, the mediator between worlds." His lips pressed against Alfred's ear tenderly.

"_I am the vampyre_."

Warm lips were upon Alfred's, smooth and wet and _perfect_. Alfred fully gave in, not caring if it wasn't right, not caring he'd been fed the Bible since birth. It was so easy with this man. All his fears and worries were gone with this kiss, his first kiss. They moved together, touching and grinding, a _need_ Alfred knew he had to fulfill. Yes. He _needed_ this man. So when he felt the man's tongue at his lips, Alfred immediately permitted it, opening his mouth, moaning at his ministrations. Alfred's mouth was manipulated and ravaged, but he could not care less. He felt _needed_ and _wanted_ and _perfect_.

Alfred was feeling for the first time, following the man's example as he ran his hands down Alfred's clothed torso sensually. Alfred shivered, not used to the sensation of anyone touching him like that. He moaned and gasped loudly to where the man's hand now resided.

"Timid virgin," the man hissed against Alfred's skin, his hand delving into his prey's trousers.

Yes, he _needed_ this. Sow new and different and unknown… _Ah_, what would he do? He kept the man close, running his fingers through that perfectly disheveled golden hair, which was as smooth and soft as the finest Chinese silk. "Don't stop," he whispered unconsciously, his mind blank.

"Trust me, that is the _last_ thing I'd do," the man reassured, chuckling. He pulled Alfred's trousers down, kissing him again hungrily. Instinctively, Alfred supported himself on the tree's trunk, lifting himself up. He wrapped his legs around the man's waist tightly, not understanding how he knew not to do. All the while, his lips had not left the man's, who was undoing his own trousers as well.

It was so new, so forbidden and amazing and beautiful. He was gone from this world, insane and his only sanity was from this man. So many times he's pictured this scenario, but it was never like this. It was always a bedroom, always a woman, always in romantic candlelight. But it was going to happen under the moonlight in the New World, with a beautiful man.

"It's going to be painful," said the man, an uneasy smirk on his face, empathetic almost. He cupped Alfred's cheek, kissing him softly. "Just… bear with me, darling." He moved his hands to Alfred's hips, bracing himself.

_Darling_. No one had ever called Alfred by a pet name before. And the way it rolled off the man's—no, the _vampyre's_ tongue—it was enough to drive Alfred crazy. Alfred kissed the vampyre vigorously, loving the exhileration, the thrill and the dangerousness of what they were about to do. He was drowning in the vampyre's eyes, losing himself.

He was being ripped apart and he was experiencing the ultimate pleasure. Alfred cried and moaned and screamed at the foreign invasion, amazed and scared. This was how it was. His innocence was being taken away, and he'd never get it back.

The vampyre kissed and licked the stray, salty tears that fell down Alfred's cheeks, starting to thrust. It was a pattern of euphoria and pain, a perfect mess of saliva-filled kisses and shaking, fumbling hands. The moon and stars watched all-knowingly, marking the night, mocking Alfred and congratulating him. Pain melted into pleasure; Alfred felt so complete with the vampyre filling him and moving so beautifully and kissing him like there was no tomorrow.

"_So tight_." The vampyre's face contorted in confusion, as if he were also losing himself. "Alfred… _darling_, move with me."

Alfred moaned and complied, the slapping skin, the heated kisses, and the loud pants like music to his ears. Everything was perfect and blurry and Alfred didn't want it to end. He was making love to a vampyre, to Mary and Matthew's murderer. He was laughing in a nonexistent god's face and loving every second of it.

The vampyre's pace quickened, and Alfred moaned and laughed, his only sanity lost along with his innocence. It was all the vampyre's. Everything.

Alfred looked up to the dark, starry sky, which spun around him. There was no God up there. God was not real, because God would not let anything as perfect and as wrong as this happen, not with a demon—with another man.

Their moans and pants melded together in a symphony of primal sounds. The vampyre hit that sweet spot over and over, and Alfred moaned for more, kissing him as if he were a comfortable lover, not someone he just met, not the one who had killed his family.

Every thought about wanting to destroy the vampyre was smothered, forgotten. Alfred could not hurt him. Not someone so beautiful, not someone who made him feel _needed_. This man, this demon… he was _everything _now. Without him, nothing would be the way it currently was. It wasn't love, it wasn't lust, it was _need_. The vampyre knew everything about him; he caused Alfred's heart to become vulnerable and took Alfred's innocence and it was so _good_ to feel this way.

The vampyre touched him there again, stroking roughly, bringing Alfred closer to his release with each thrust.

"_Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop_," Alfred kept repeating, the vampyre his only reason, the only thing he would ever need to know.

"I won't," the vampyre reassured, panting. "I always finish what I start, darling."

The pet name threw Alfred off the edge. A few more thrusts and he found release, letting out a loud, guttural moan. The vampyre came soon after, his emerald eyes half-lidded.

Alfred gasped at the absence of the vampyre inside him, evidence of what had just happened running down his thighs. He couldn't move, not even to pull his own trousers up or to straighten his rumpled clothes. He couldn't believe it. He'd just made love to his brother's killer. In some way he figured it could have been a form of sick, twisted revenge, but Alfred found nothing but sin and shame. The vampyre stripped him of his innocence, and Alfred wasn't getting Matthew back anytime soon. Nothing was right; everything was confusing and wrong, and it was the vampyre's fault.

"I know, I know, I know," the vampyre whispered, kissing Alfred's face tenderly. His hands fumbled to redo his own trousers. "But it's all over." He straightened Alfred's clothes, redressing him. He simply murmured in Alfred's ear, "_Relax_."

Alfred immediately stopped tensing, weakened and hypnotized by the vampyre's silky voice. He relaxed to the vampyre's slow kisses, basking in the afterglow of his frst post-orgasmic haze. Tired, he closed his eyes and tilted his head up, exposing his neck.

The vampyre kissed his neck with special care, almost lovingly.

Alfred almost laughed at himself for being so stupid, but it was too late. The damage was done. The vampyre had won. The vampyre would _always_ win, Alfred now knew that.

* * *

><p>"You're no gentleman," Alfred growled, stretching his arms over his head. Over a century later, and his own slight British accent dissolved into an American one. "A gentleman would not be so loud in bed. A gentleman does not curse like a sailor."<p>

"_Bugger_," came the muffled reply from the lethargic mass next to Alfred. "What time is it?"

"Time for you to get a clock," Alfred joked, kissing the bunch of blonde hair before lighting the candle on the nightstand. "It's nightfall."

"_Mm_… and I'm hungry." A sigh, and the other slowly turned over to glance at his lover through tired, emerald eyes. "Why must we move again?"

"Because we've consumed half the town already, Arthur," explained Alfred, leaning over Arthur's lean body. "Let's go somewhere _big_. Like Boston. There are many more people that we can consume there. "

Arthur frowned skeptically. "You want something," he stated, eyeing Alfred's sparkling blue eyes.

"_Please_? Let's go to Boston!" Alfred exclaimed. "I'm so _sick_ of Alexandria. We've been living here for years now. Someone's bound to notice we're not aging."

"Well, I like it here," said Arthur stubbornly. "It's calm and lovely, not at all like Boston, _especially_ after that ghastly massacre."

"Yeah, the massacre _your_ people executed," Alfred countered. "Boston was so _exciting_ the last time we were there. Let's go again! I want to see how it's changed."

"And that's _easily_ a week's journey," said Arthur. "Why move so far? Why somewhere where chaos is bound to happen?"

"I _love_ chaos." Alfred smiled deviously, his fangs bared. "And something big is going to happen in Boston. I can feel it."

"Philadelphia," Arthur suggested. "Not as cold, and much more civilized."

"Boston," Alfred argued. "Take it or leave it. I want to see the ocean."

Arthur's arms wrapped around Alfred's neck, smirking. "We'll discuss it later," he said, kissing Alfred softly. "I'm too hungry to think."

"_Hm_." Alfred smiled against Arthur's skin. "Then don't."

* * *

><p>"I'm joining the war."<p>

"You will do nothing of the sort."

"I want to. I want to help my country gain its independence."

"This is not your country. You were not born here."

"I was born here a vampyre, after you made love to me for the first time. Or have you forgotten?"

"This is ridiculous. You are not joining the war, and that is final."

"Yes I am. You have no say in my decision-making."

"You'll _die_ out there."

"Never. I have superhuman abilities."

"They'll find out what you are."

"They won't."

"You're young."

"I'm over a century old. I can take care of myself."

"I don't want to lose you!"

"… You won't. I will return."

"You join the war, and I return to Southampton. You say you can take care of yourself? Fine."

"… Don't go. I need you here with me. You're… you're my everything, Arthur. You're all I know."

"You should have thought of that before you were so set on fighting for a few colonies, Alfred."

"I'm doing what's _right_."

"You're acting on impulse, as usual. Mark me, join this war, and you won't see me again until it's over."

Arthur made good on his promise, naturally.

* * *

><p>And like always, Arthur won. When he left for Southampton, he'd left Alfred as a lover, never to make love to or kiss again.<p>

It wasn't until after Arthur left that Alfred truly missed him. He missed waking up in Arthur's arms and kissing him tenderly. He missed gazing into Arthur's dazzling emerald eyes, and even Arthur's dark, bushy eyebrows.

It was natural to miss his first love, he guessed. But Arthur was much more than Alfred's first love. He was Alfred's _life_, his other half. Arthur had taken _everything_ from Alfred, stripped him of his family, his innocence, his life. Without Arthur, Alfred had nothing but eternal existence and superhuman abilities.

He was put to good use in the American militia, and he became a mindless drone for five years. But not a night went by when he didn't think about Arthur. He dreamed of how they used to make love, fingers intertwined, the bed creaking beneath them as Alfred thrust into Arthur (or vice versa; they switched off quite often).

But as much as he loved Arthur, American independence was much more important. He understood Arthur's Loyalist viewpoints—he used to be British too, after all—but moving to America meant starting all over as an American. When he saw how strong and patriotic American citizens were, he knew he had to be part of the Revolution.

When the war ended, Alfred awaited Arthur's return, desperate to kiss and love him again.

And then, Arthur won. He found a beautiful French _bondmate_, and Alfred knew he'd never had Arthur again. The bond was made to never be broken, and the way Arthur drowned in his bondmate's eyes struck Alfred with the reality that Arthur was truly in love with someone else. He'd lost his first love.

But Arthur definitely wasn't his last.

**YUH. Got lazy, so that explains the dialogue part. If you can't guess who's who, I'm pretty sure I made it obvious. Next chapter is RussAme, in a really weird lemon.**

**Reviews for Maggie?**


	3. My Heart Has a Light

**So, like, no reviews here yet. But I have some on dA, so it's all good, I guess. :/**

**My Heart Has a Light**

"_My personality isn't always apparent_

'_Full of mystery,' they say, and get scared."_

* * *

><p>Unrequited love was almost as painful as losing Arthur. Alfred had accepted Arthur's new love, and the three traveled Europe, learning of vampyric history.<p>

Wang Yao and Ivan Braginski were notoriously famous, Alfred learned, for their creation of the bond. The bond was sacred; it melded two vampyre souls into one. The vow was intimate and unbreakable, save the exception of Roderich Edelstein and Elizaveta Hédérváry. Many vampyres were already bonded by 1810: Ivan and Yao, Sadiq and Heracles, Toris and Feliks, Roderich and Gilbert, Arthur and Françoise, Tino and Bianca. Alfred wanted the same. He wanted that feeling of being with another vampyre, much like what he used to have with Arthur.

Alfred sighed, burying his face in his hands in the guest room in Ivan and Yao's mansion in Moscow. Everything was so confusing.

That nose… it was so rigid and perfect. And that amazing large frame and soft platinum hair. Not to mention those piercing, all-knowing violet eyes that seemed to just glance at Alfred and suddenly know everything about him. He was so mysterious, so great and powerful.

And he was taken.

There was a knock, interrupting Alfred's thoughts. "Yes?" he asked, suspicious of whom it was.

Arthur entered, a knowing look on his face. "You have such bad luck with men," he said, getting straight to the point, "and such good luck with women. Why try when you know what will inevitably happen?"

Alfred stood, frowning. "He doesn't have to find out." He pouted. "What he doesn't know won't kill him, and I'll get over it soon enough." He approached Arthur, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You know me so well it's scary."

"Of course," Arthur chuckled. "I may be Françoise's bondmate, but I've known you far longer, and you hold a special place within me. I'll always love you, you know."

"Then why did you leave me?" asked Alfred, his eyebrows creasing in worry. "I know it wasn't just the war." He'd never asked why Arthur left him. He silently learned to accept Arthur's decision and was truly happy for him, but he did have a right to know.

Arthur sighed, taking Alfred's face in his hands. "When you said I was your everything, I found it shockingly true. I taught you everything. I took everything from you, Alfred, and after a century, I knew you couldn't _truly_ experience vampyre life with me glamorizing everything to perfection for you. You needed to test your powers on your own." He sighed, and he innocently kissed Alfred on his forehead. "I never told you this, but Françoise was the one that turned me from human to vampyre. When I returned to Southampton, it was the first time I'd seen her in eight hundred years."

"Why didn't you tell me about her before?" Alfred inquired, shocked to be hearing this for the first time.

"Naturally, I never thought I'd see her again. I didn't think I'd _have_ to mention her. The sad thing was, _I_ left _her_ first. She was looking for a miserable soul, and that was me. Unfortunately, I wasn't miserable after my transformation, and I explored what I could do until I settled with you after the _Mayflower_," Arthur explained.

"But how did you—"

"Arthur!" a light, heavily French-accented voice called. "_Mon cher_, where are you?"

"Coming, darling!" Arthur called back, his hands dropping to his slacks, wiping on the fabric as if touching Alfred were unholy now. "Look, Alfred," he said. "Long story short, had it not been for her, that five year gap would have merely been a pause in an ongoing relationship. And, truth be told, I'm glad I ran into her again. Alfred, you need to experience love for its heartbreaks and happiness. If we were still together, you wouldn't know what it would be like to leave someone… and truly leave them forever. You need to experiment. Just… whatever you do, _don't_ tell Ivan how you feel. It will only end in utter disaster, I assure you."

"I wasn't planning on it," said Alfred firmly. And he really wasn't. He respected Yao, the first vampyre after Dracula, who had seen so much in his eternal life. Yao had lost one love before, Alfred was told, and no way would Alfred want to steal Yao's _bondmate_. But it was nice to dream and fantasize.

"Well…" Arthur smiled, as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words. "Don't do anything you'll regret." He left abruptly, looking for Françoise.

By four in the morning, Alfred was quite tired, and ready to rest the day now that the heavy curtains were drawn. He examined his face in the mirror; he was much healthier looking now that he had fed. Pity, she was extremely cute, too. But everyone had to die, and Alfred had brought her there peacefully. Color was brought back into his cheeks, and his hair looked less stringy and softer. His eyes were deep and mysterious behind Matthew's glasses, and his smile could dazzle any being.

Still, he wasn't as beautiful as Ivan. Ivan always looked amazing, even when he was hungry. Those violet eyes retained their intimidating intensity, and his pale skin was always clear and perfect.

_He's with Yao, he's with Yao, he's with Yao_, Alfred kept reminding himself, taking off Matthew's glasses for the imminent day. Unrequited love was so _complicated_.

There was a soft knock. "Come in," Alfred said, straightening his shirt.

Of course, who should step in but Ivan? "The room is to your liking, _da_?" he asked, a pleasant smile on his face. "I never had the opportunity to ask." That _accent_. It was so Russian and silky.

"It's great," Alfred deadpanned, trying not to show his true feelings. "I have a lovely view of the… garden." What _was_ behind that curtain? Alfred had glanced through the window and saw nothing but a lone tree, a fence, and snow. _Always_ snow.

"It blooms beautifully in the spring," said Ivan. Alfred wasn't sure what "it" was. "You know…" Ivan approached Alfred with his supernatural speed. "You have gotten much paler since your arrival in Moscow. _Da_… you are much more beautiful this way, _dorogoy_."

Alfred blushed uncontrollably. Didn't "_dorogoy_" mean "dear" in Russian? Was he… _flirting_? "Thank you." Alfred averted his eyes from Ivan's at all costs.

Ivan pursed his lips, pondering. Alfred still kept his gaze away. Did Ivan always wear that scarf? Alfred distinctly remembered Ivan wearing it every day since his arrival.

"You are flushing, Alfred," said Ivan observantly. _Shit_. "You do not have a fever, do you?" He placed a hand underneath Alfred's bangs, feeling his forehead.

"N-no, I—" Alfred felt a weird sensation in his mind. Like something were invading him mentally. It couldn't have been Ivan… could it?

Ivan quickly pulled his hand away, that smile still present on his face. "_Nyet_, I was wrong." He walked toward the door slowly. "Have a nice sleep, _dorogoy_."

With a skeptical look, Alfred dressed for bed, wanting to forget this weird encounter as soon as possible.

* * *

><p>"<em>Dorogoy<em>…" It was a faint whisper, calling Alfred awake.

"Wha—" Alfred's eyes shot open, his vision hazed with sleep. Ivan hovered above him, his violet eyes ever observant. "Ivan?"

Instead of saying anything, Ivan pressed his lips to Alfred's. Alfred took in his musky scent, the way their lips moved together, _everything_. Something this vivid could not be a dream.

"_Vanya_…" Ivan whispered, his lips moving to Alfred's jaw line. "I want to hear it tumble from your lips."

"Wh-what about Yao?" This was happening _way_ too fast.

"Who?" Ivan's large, callused hands ran down Alfred's clothed torso, sending shivers toward Alfred's nether regions. So _real_. This just couldn't be a dream! But there was something telling Alfred that it might be.

"Your _bondmate_," Alfred clarified, frowning. "The love of your… afterlife?"

Ivan laughed, the same light, church bell laugh Arthur had… only Ivan's was far more sinister. "Alfred..." he called teasingly, his hands pulling Alfred's nightclothes up. Up until now, Alfred didn't realize Ivan was only wearing his trademark scarf. "There is only you. Just like to you, there is only me."

Alfred blushed furiously, embarrassed by Ivan's lack of clothing, the way Ivan was touching him oh-so perfectly, and Ivan's words. _This. Could. Not. Be. Happening._ He tried pinching himself, but nothing happened. _Damn_. Then why did he feel so out of place?

"React," Ivan growled, his lips ghosting over Alfred's neck. "Give in. Don't question it and _feel_."

"I-I…" Ivan's lips upon Alfred's again made his mind blank. _Yes. Give in. Like the first time with Arthur. So easy…_

He tried to let his mind go, not trying to think about how _wrong_ this was. When Ivan kissed him, Alfred complied. When Ivan's lips sucked on his neck, Alfred let out lust-filled moans. But Ivan was too much _like Arthur_. The way he kissed Alfred, the way he moved… Alfred knew if he closed his eyes he could picture Arthur right over his body. Maybe he could pretend it was Arthur; maybe that would help him deal with this strange situation.

Ivan's cold hands undressed Alfred quickly, feeling the warm skin underneath. All the while Alfred let go, kissing and responding like he was told to do. Bare skin made contact, and Alfred was shocked by how _real_ it all was. Maybe this wasn't a dream. Maybe this was real, and Ivan really was ravishing him.

Alfred gasped as those torturing lips moved down his torso, kissing anywhere and everywhere. Those hands were making him forget everything, and the soft ends of the scarf tickled Alfred's sides. Ivan reached for something on the wooden nightstand, but Alfred could not tell what it was with his hazed mind.

"Spread your legs," Ivan commanded, his lips moving back up to Alfred's neck. Alfred complied, knowing this was the only way he could find release. Ivan's cold fingers probed his entrance, slick with some sort of lubricant. Alfred hissed, not used to the sensation. He hadn't been with a man in about thirty-five years, and it was almost new again.

A second finger was added, and Ivan began to scissor Alfred's insides, making the younger vampyre wince in slight pain. Ivan kissed all his fears away tenderly, reassuringly, and Alfred relaxed a bit, picturing Arthur doing this. Yes. Arthur, with his piercing green eyes and lithe body. Because with Arthur, Alfred felt safe, at peace. Not with Ivan. Ivan was bonded, and whenever Alfred pictured his first love, it was the Arthur that did not leave him. The one that loved Alfred as a partner, as someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

"Looks at me," Ivan growled, sounding hurt. "I told you to let go, yet you are holding back, Alfred."

"I-I'm sorry," Alfred whimpered, meeting Ivan's intimidating, violet eyes. "It's so hard to forget…"

Ivan gave Alfred that crooked smile again. "Then maybe I can help, _da_?"

Alfred nodded tentatively, and prepared for the pain.

That was most definitely _not_ Arthur. Alfred let out a hoarse scream, wondering why it seemed as if no one else could hear them. Maybe everyone else was out…? Alfred could not think; he whimpered as Ivan buried himself completely inside.

"Ah… _fuck_," Alfred hissed through clenched teeth, trying to adjust to Ivan's size. How could he possibly picture Arthur when Ivan was so damn _large_?

_Give in, give in._

_ Yes. So easy. Let go and _feel_. Succumb._

Alfred brought his hands to Ivan's face and kissed him deeply. "Please move… _Vanya_," he whispered, beginning to truly lose himself.

Ivan smirked again, knowing he had Alfred right where he wanted him. "See, _dorogoy_? See how easy it is to give in to your emotions? It is in our nature as vampyres." He thrust slowly, eliciting wanting moans from Alfred.

Alfred blanked his mind, letting the lust take over. He focused on how Ivan was moving, how he was making Alfred feel, how he clutched at Ivan's pale back, wanting more. It was delicious and wonderful, but somewhere deep in Alfred's subconscious he knew it was wrong. But as he moaned for more, Ivan moved faster, throwing Alfred over the edge. This was sex at its rawest, passionate and primal. And it was so, so _real_.

_It's not a dream_. Alfred's eyes shot open at this realization as Ivan's hand snaked between them to grasp Alfred's erection. _No dream could be so vivid, so real_.

_This is really happening._

They moved together, the sounds and feelings pounding within Alfred. Ivan was really being unfaithful to Yao. He was really buried inside Alfred, calling him pet names and kissing him like a lover. And Alfred wanted to blame himself, but he knew it was not his fault. He was going to keep his feelings a secret, but damn it, Ivan found out and _acted_.

As Ivan hit that spot, Alfred cried out loudly, the pleasure almost at its maximum peak. He could feel himself growing closer to release and arched his back, waiting for that moment.

With a few more thrusts, Alfred came in Ivan's hand, and Ivan was more than willing to clean it up with his mouth. He continued moving inside Alfred, almost spent as well.

Alfred shuddered at the feeling of Ivan's release filling him, making him feel like a dirty whore. Where was the justice? The reassurance that this was somehow right? He was so overwhelmed…

"Sleep," Ivan instructed, pulling himself out of Alfred.

Before complying, Alfred noticed Ivan's left hand, the one he had so ruthlessly used to bring Alfred to his climax, still had a gold band around his ring finger.

* * *

><p>When Alfred woke again, he felt well rested, and surprisingly not in pain. It seemed Ivan had taken the liberty in redressing Alfred. It was still nightfall, so he could not have slept more than a few hours.<p>

Then why did he feel so relaxed and rested?

Before he could think, there was a knock at the door. Alfred shuffled around, leaping up from the bed and putting Matthew's glasses on.

Ivan smiled from the other side; it was definitely not as sinister as a few hours ago. "I trust you had a nice sleep?" he asked. "Did you have good dreams?"

What the—? Alfred glanced at Ivan skeptically. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Ivan sighed. "Sit down," he said, "and we'll talk."

Alfred obeyed, and Ivan sat in one of the red velvet chairs that decorated the intricate room. "What happened?" Alfred asked.

"You know how we each have one special ability? How each vampyre is blessed with a different gift along with our other powers?" Ivan started.

"Like how I can lift an elephant with my bare hands and how Françoise can see through the thickest walls?" Alfred guessed. He'd learned of the Gift when he effortlessly lifted his and Arthur's bed one night. After freaking out, Arthur had explained that each vampyre was given another ability along with his or her other powers, and sometimes it could take up to a century to activate. Arthur, for example, could manipulate people's thoughts through physical contact, but it only worked on humans.

_"Wait, so the night you met me…" Alfred had tried to put two and two together. "You pinned me against the tree and made me _believe_ I didn't want to hurt you!"_

_"You couldn't even if you tried," Arthur had insulted, smirking._

_ "And you _manipulated_ me into having sex with you!" Alfred had cried. "Holy shit, Arthur, is there anything you _haven't_ done to change me?"_

_ "Okay, I'll admit, I didn't mean for _that_ to go as far as it had." Alfred remembered how cute Arthur was when he blushed. "I was just going to have you lift your head up so I could give you a proper bite, but your mind was too active and I needed to weaken it!"_

_ "Arthur Kirkland, you are _so dead_!"_

_ "Can't kill what's already dead, love."_

"_Da_, exactly," said Ivan bringing Alfred back to the present. "Do you know what my gift is?"

Alfred shook his head.

"Through physical contact, I can surface dreams and feelings through the subconscious," Ivan explained. "It helps people find solutions to problems."

"It was a _dream_?" Alfred shrieked in disbelief. "It felt so real…" The blush on his cheeks was very prominent.

"Er… that is one of the many ways my gift works. Arthur did not tell you? He was supposed to have done so the night before. " Ivan crossed his arms.

Alfred jogged his memory. He remembered Arthur looking at him like he wanted to explain something further, but didn't do so. _That's_ what it must have been. "He did not," Alfred confirmed, shaking his head again. "So… you knew."

Ivan did not deny it. "I did," he said, nodding. "I can tell when one is infatuated, Alfred. And I am truly flattered. But I am Yao's, and I always will be. I just figured through my gift I'd make you realize what you wanted. Did it work?"

"I guess." Alfred shrugged. "I learned I couldn't fall for a bonded man. It's too dangerous."

"But even more to not say anything to said man, Alfred," said Ivan knowingly. "Bottled emotions are never healthy." He stood and walked toward the door. "I hope I have no inconvenienced your search for true love."

"Not in the slightest." Alfred smiled. "It just… made me more aware."

Because Alfred sure as hell wasn't making this mistake again.

**So yeah. Weird, right? It seems like Alfred's never gonna have a happy ending. Just wait. It only gets worse.**

**Next Chapter: It is now 1850 in Paris. Alfred meets a vampyre with a past almost as tragic as his.**


	4. But It's Better If You Do

**Back with chapter three! :) A HUGE thanks to PervyOtaku, who corrected my horrible French. XD You're a lifesaver, _ma chérie!_**

**_But It's Better If You Do_**

"_And isn't this exactly where you'd like me._

_I'm exactly where you'd like me._

_You know, praying for love in a lap dance and paying in naivety?"_

* * *

><p>Summer of 1850, Paris. It was warm and comfortable in Arthur and Françoise's Parisian château. The city was magical and full of <em>l'amour<em>. They'd been here for ten years, and during that time, Alfred became fluent in French, which filled Françoise with delight and Arthur with dread.

But tonight seemed different, Alfred noticed among the throng of fashionable Parisians he consumed every night. Something… _miserable_. He especially noticed it in _Le Club Burlesque_, where he spent most of his nights feeding on the desperate girls that earned nightly tips dancing especially for him.

"_Ah, bonsoir! Alfred, mon ami! Comment allez-vous?_" ("Ah, good evening! Alfred, my friend! How are you?") cried the club's owner, Camille. She was poised and French, and had fallen quickly to Alfred's charms, not even noticing his lack of aging these past ten years. "_Vous semblez très, très beau_." ("You look very, very handsome tonight.")

"_Ah, merci beaucoup, ma ch__ère,_" ("Ah, thank you very much, my dear.") Alfred replied, kissing Camille on both cheeks. _Mm_, s_on sang avait une odeur très, très délicieuse, ce soir._ (Her blood smelled very, very delicious tonight.) Maybe he'd take her if no one else showed up. Smirking, he made his way to his seat at the bar, ordering his usual glass of red wine, which was not too bad, considering he was a vampyre. He could hear Camille backstage, shouting at her dancers to get ready to entertain. It was funny how this idea of sexual theatre started in London and moved to America, and eventually trickled into Paris.

"Lisette? _Lisette!_ _Dépêchez-vous!_" ("Hurry up!") Camille barked. Then, the Parisian club owner took the stage, announcing _Le Club Burlesque's_ newest dancer, Lisette Allioli. A stage name, no doubt.

But when that beauty took the stage, Alfred sensed something different about her. In her skimpy outfit, she still seemed secretive and mysterious. Her soft hair was tied into a tight chignon, and makeup was piled high around her bright, green eyes. There was something familiar about her, but Alfred could not tell what it was.

She sang.

And Alfred knew, just by how the testosterone in the club seemed to triple. The way she danced was only mediocre, and her stripping could have had way more class, but when her voice carried, everyone in the club was mesmerized by her every move. Everyone, that is, except Alfred. Still, he moved closer, trying to blend to blend into the crowd.

Lisette Allioli was a vampyre.

And, when her piercing emerald eyes met Alfred's, he could tell she knew he was one, too.

Alfred found his way backstage to Camille, who was always more than wiling to lend him a female escort for the night. "_Le spectable était très incroyable,_" ("The show was very incredible.") he complimented, looking over the girls Camille had tonight.

"_Ah, mais ça l'est toujours, n'est-ce pas?_" ("Ah, but it always is, isn't that so?") Camille joked, taking Alfred's arm.

"_Oui, oui_." Alfred laughed, but ceased when he stood face-to-face with Lisette Allioli. "_Ah… Je voudrais la voir, s'il vous plaît._" ("Ah… I would like to see her, please.")

The girl met his gaze head-on. "_Oui, monsieur,_" she replied, cozying up to Alfred's side like the good whore she was. But Alfred was not using her for that.

"_Allons-y?_" ("Shall we go?") He smirked at the girl.

"_Oui_," she said bluntly.

"_Ah_…" Camille took a hold of Alfred's arm before he could leave. "_Monsieur_… _elle est très nouvelle; êtes-vous sûr__?_" ("She's very new. Are you sure?")

"_Porquoi?_" ("Why?") he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Camille's voice dropped. "_Elle est hongroise. Elle ne parle pas beaucoup français_," ("She's Hungarian. She doesn't speak much French.") she explained.

"_C'est bien, Camille_," ("It's fine, Camille.") Alfred reassured, leading the girl out of the club. Before he left, he called back, "_Oh, et je ne suis pas canadien. Je suis américain. Et je parle très, très bien l'anglais__._" ("Oh, and I'm not Canadian. I'm American. I speak English very, very well.")

He probably wouldn't be invited into the club again after tonight, given Camille's hatred for anything American.

* * *

><p>Alfred and his escort walked in silence, their gazes straight ahead. He would not regard her until she caved first or until Arthur and Françoise knew of her existence in Paris.<p>

Finally, the girl spoke. "_Vous dîtes que vous savez l'anglais,_" ("You say you know English.") she said. "_C'est vrai?_" ("It's true?")

Alfred nodded. "_Oui. Vous parlez en anglais?_" ("Yes. You speak English?")

"_Oui_." The girl looked down. "_Je parle en anglais plus qu'en français_." ("I speak English better than French.")

Smiling, Alfred stopped, facing his new friend. "I'm Alfred," he greeted, holding his hand out for her to shake.

The girl hesitantly took it. "Elizaveta Héderváry," she said. "And I _am_ Hungarian, like Camille said. What generation of the vampyre are you?" She pronounced "vampyre" in its most primitive form, which intrigued Alfred.

"Fourth," he answered. "Yao, Françoise, Arthur, me. And you?"

"First," she declared rather smugly. "Changed by Dracula himself. I am almost a millennium eternal."

"If you are so great, then why are you working as an escort in a club?" Alfred took Elizaveta's arm again and started walking in the direction of the château. "I _saw_ you expose your body up there on that stage. Now why would one of our kind stoop so low?"

"Old money does not last forever, _monsieur_ Alfred," said Elizaveta grimly. "One night later, and it can all be gone. My story is not one that ends happily, and it is not one I wish to discuss."

"You brought it up. Now I'm taking you home so we can sort this out," Alfred scowled, clutching onto Elizaveta's arm tighter.

"Let go of me," she growled. "I do not wish to associate with another vampyre after this night."

"Good, so tonight you're free." Alfred's pace quickened, became almost superhuman.

"Do not challenge me, _mon petit garçon_, (my little boy)" Elizaveta warned. "My powers are more matured than yours."

Alfred stopped; they were standing in front of a French restaurant that was famous for its garlic recipes. He gripped Elizaveta's arm quite tightly, almost enough for it to snap.

"That may be true, _ma ch__ère_ (my dear)," he replied, "but I am at an advantage, you see. I know your weaknesses, and I have the strength of a thousand men."

Elizaveta struggled against his clutch. "You're lying," she mused, her brows furrowing.

"Don't believe me?" Alfred smirked, then lifted them both effortlessly in the air. Swooping down, Alfred grabbed an empty carriage (horse not included; the driver led it to some water) and lifted it over his head, still holding Elizaveta's arm at the same time.

"Oh my…" The Hungarian was speechless.

"Now do you believe me?" Alfred placed the carriage back down and smirked at Elizaveta. "Now, I see two options. You can come quietly to the château so we can figure this all out, or I can make you go. I'd choose the former if I were you."

"I will go," she said, and Alfred didn't know if it was out of fear or reason.

"_Bien_ (Good). Now, fly or walk, _ma ch__ère_?" asked Alfred. "It's up to you."

"Fly," Elizaveta decided immediately. "I have not been to Paris in four hundred years, but I'm afraid you'll most likely talk me to death." She looked off dreamily. "Nothing like Roderich."

"Old lover?" Alfred lifted an eyebrow in curiosity. He held his arm out for Elizaveta to take.

Elizaveta hesitated, but knew there was no use in fighting, so she hooked her arm with Alfred's. "Something of the sort," she answered. "He broke my heart."

They rounded a corner into an alleyway. "_Ah, mais __ma ch__ère, c'est la vie,_" ("But my dear, that's life.") Alfred smiled. "Where would we be without its ups and downs?"

"Dead," said Elizaveta, and they were up in the air.

* * *

><p>"<em>Ah, Elizaveta, <em>_ma ch__ère! Ma chérie__!_" ("Ah, Elizaveta, my dear! My dear!") Françoise was the only one in the château; Arthur was out feeding. She greeted Elizaveta like an old friend, kissing her cheeks and showering her with compliments. "V_ous semblez très, très belle! Comment allez-vous, ma belle chérie__?_" ("You look very, very beautiful! How are you, my beautiful dear?")

"_Ah_…" Elizaveta seemed overwhelmed. Alfred wondered how far back these two went.

"_Ah, je suis desolée!_" ("Ah, I'm sorry!") Françoise cried, patting Elizaveta's shoulders. "_Je suis b__ête; je sais que vous ne parlez pas français!_" ("I'm stupid; I know you don't speak French!")

"_Non, non!_" ("No, no!") Elizaveta chuckled. "_Vous n'êtes pas bête. Je connais le français, et je suis bon!_" ("You're not stupid. I know French, and I'm good!") She shrugged uncertainly. "_Er… Je connais un peu de français_." ("Er… I know a little French.")

"_Alfred, vous ne m'aviez pas dit que ma petite chérie était à Paris__!_" ("Alfred, you didn't tell me my little dear was in Paris!") Françoise exclaimed.

Alfred bowed politely. "_Je suis desolée, Françoise_." ("I'm sorry, Françoise.")

"If I may interrupt?" Elizaveta smiled at Françoise. "I would be more comfortable if we talked in English. And it is not Alfred's fault. I have not been here long, _ma ch__ère."_

"Oh." Françoise blushed. "Then what brings you to Paris, _ma ch__ère_?"

"Business," Elizaveta answered vaguely, "that I do not wish to discuss."

"And it's getting late, isn't it?" said Alfred rather quickly. "Have you fed yet, Françoise?"

Françoise blinked, then let out a low chuckle. "_Oh, non, mon petit garçon,_" she teased, pinching Alfred's cheek. Boy, did he hate when she did that. He may have been centuries younger than her, but he was _not_ a child. Her blue eyes twinkled. "I think I am going to find Arthur first." With that, she tossed her curly blonde hair over her shoulder and took off. "_Au revoir, mes amis!_ Have fun without me!"

Elizaveta sighed uncomfortably. "She is quite… eccentric," she finally said, "since the last time I spoke to her."

Alfred chuckled. "But her intentions are very maternal," he countered softly, starting to climb the grand staircase. Elizaveta followed obediently. "She is a really caring being beneath it all."

Elizaveta kept up with his fast pace. "You have a wide gaze," she noticed, clasping her hands behind her back. "You see past the surface. You _observe_; you go deeper than what the physical eye sees."

Alfred turned down a long corridor, embellished with paintings and candles. "You're the first one who's ever noticed that," he said, his eyes not meeting hers. "Thank you."

For some reason, this made her blush. She knew she had a way with talking to men, but to be the first to observe a character trait in a being? She didn't know how to respond.

He turned into a room. It was very comfortable and regal, with its four-poster canopy bed and dazzling view of _Le Tour Eiffel_.

"Is this room fine?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "I can always accommodate you with another if otherwise."

"No, no, this is beautiful," she replied, stepping into the immaculate room. "Although… I do have my own apartment in the city."

"I'd rather you stay here so I can keep an eye on you." He smirked, leaning against one of the bed's poster's.

"Do you use that line with all of your cohorts?" Elizaveta leered. Her tongue was damn sharp, that was for sure.

"Of course not. Only the ones that are dense enough to even try to get out of my grasp," he retorted, his glasses winking in the candlelight.

"Well, it's a good thing I don't apply."

"Your tongue's going to get you into a mess of trouble one day." His tone was quite serious now. "Now I suggest you cut your crap and start telling me your story before I _make_ you tell me."

She stiffened. "Then I suggest you sit down, because it is a long one. And I would like a drink. You _are_ a host, _n'est-ce pas_? (isn't that so?)" she said before sitting down on the large canopy bed.

He shrugged. "I hope you like red wine." He was back with two glasses and a bottle by the time she blinked.

Alfred screwed the wine opener through the cork. "Now, begin. I'm listening."

Elizaveta sighed and picked up a glass, tracing her finger over its rim. "Have you ever fallen so deeply in love with a human before that you just _knew_ you had to have her?" she started.

_Pop._

"Not that I can recall," Alfred answered, pouring the wine. "My only loves were vampyres."

"Ah, then you do not know _real _love, _mon petit garçon_." Elizaveta waggled a finger at Alfred. "When a human becomes more beautiful to you than any vampyre you've ever known, _then_ it is true love."

"Who was he?" Alfred took a sip of re wine and raised an eyebrow.

"_Is_. He is still out there, that unimaginable bastard." Elizaveta's eyes were drawn to the window. "He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Soft, chestnut hair, twinkling violet eyes hidden behind glasses, a pouting lip accentuated by a tiny beauty mark… I will always remember each distinct feature, no matter how long I am away from him.

"I transformed him as soon as I could get my hands on him. Beauty like that needed to be preserved for eternity. And I wanted him in such a way that could have possibly driven me mad.

"But it was clear he did not want me at the time," she continued, her eyes clouded. "I gave him immortality, a gift so many would give _anything_ for. I gave him a new life, superhuman abilities. And all he had to do was avoid the sun and feed off the innocent blood of mortals. Still, he was not satisfied."

"That seems a little off," Alfred interrupted, taking a seat on the bed next to Elizaveta. "Why give him immortality if you knew he wouldn't be satisfied? Sounds like a waste of power to me. I was _manipulated_ before I was turned, sure, but after the transformation, I never thought of myself as a _damned_ creature."

Elizaveta chuckled, sipping her wine. "Two reasons," she said, holding up two perfectly manicured fingers. "One, I wanted him. And two, I knew that if I weakened him morale, he would cave. With immortality, it was easy to be patient. He didn't know any other vampyre besides myself, and I offered him everything with open… on _one_ condition."

"The bond." Alfred understood now.

Elizaveta did not deny it. "Of course. Because not only would he pledge his undying love for me, we would be together for eternity. I was his only option. And things start to loo very pretty when you give them time."

"Wait, so you mean to tell me you've been waiting for this man to cave since you turned him?" Alfred asked in disbelief. "How long has _that_ been?"

Elizaveta presented her left hand to Alfred. "Look at the ring finger," she commanded.

Alfred took her hand gingerly, examining it. On her ring finger, a red burn served as a band, always reminding her of what had happened. "It's not possible…" he whispered.

"Take a good, hard look," she said, her voice cold. "That is one of the consequences one must face if one decides to break the unbreakable vow."

Alfred regarded Elizaveta much differently now. "_You broke the bond_," he stated, as if saying it enough times would ring true in his ears. "You've done the impossible."

"If I've done it, then it is quite possible, my naïve child," she said grimly.

"Then how long did you have to wait for him?" Alfred poured them both more wine.

"Seventy years," Elizaveta answered. "Which, as you know, is not that long for our time. I could be patient with him. I could wait. So I did. I knew he would cave.

"But that is not how one wins true love, Alfred," she explained. "True love must be proven. It must be active, not passive. That was my grave error. I bonded to a man that only _thought_ he truly loved me. And I had him trapped.

"For nearly four hundred years we earned our fortune, feeding off the aristocrat and moving up in society. It was truly a time of happiness. But I could not help but notice a flicker of his cold self every one in a while. I ignored it, the stupid, lovesick girl I was.

"Tell me, Alfred, were you around during the Black Plague?" She suddenly asked, a playful glint in her green eyes.

Alfred shook his head. "Sadly," he answered. "Arthur and Françoise always reminisce on it as if it were the most delightful event in the world."

"Oh, it was," she agreed. "For a vampyre, anyway. We could kill without having to worry about humans off so mysteriously. We could _feast_, and not deal withthe guilt of killing, since these souls could not survive much longer, anyway.

"And things were good for about fifty years. Then… _they_ intervened."

"They?" Maybe Alfred knew these vampyres.

"Yes… the Beilschmidt siblings."

"Oh, Gilbert and Monika?" Alfred replied enthusiastically. He was well acquainted with Monika, but had yet to meet her older brother, whom he'd heard nothing but great things.

"Yes," Elizaveta deadpanned.

Alfred poured more wine in Elizaveta's glass. "What do you have against them?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing against Monika," she replied. "She was always so diligent and sweet. But Gilbert… he is one of the reasons why I am no longer bonded."

"Let me guess… your bondmate fell for another man."

Elizaveta just nodded.

"_Damn_, that's harsh." Alfred leaned back a bit. "It must have made you question if your time together was just a lie."

"Yes, _exactly_!" Elizaveta's eyebrows shot up. "That was _exactly_ how I felt! I gave him _everything_, and he conducted an affair with a man _under the same roof_. And the way they would glance at each other with such _trust_ and _love_… I couldn't tae it anymore, so I broke the bond and I haven't seen him since. It has been four hundred years. No doubt he's living happily, bonded again."

"So, when you left, you had nothing," Alfred inferred.

Elizaveta nodded, drowning the rest of her glass in one gulp. "I had to start from the bottom again. And without Roderich, I haven't gotten far." It was the first time she'd mentioned his name since she'd started telling her tragic tale.

Alfred knew the last thing she wanted was sympathy. "So, what are you going to do about it?" he asked, pouring her more wine. "Are you just going to avoid him forever? One of these days, you're going to have to face him again."

"I can avoid him if I want!" Elizaveta protested. "I have forever! I can keep running from that bastard!"

He grabbed her wrist before she could down more wine. "Listen to me, Elizaveta," he growled, his voice starting to sound frightening. "The longer you run, the longer you're avoiding reality. And with each mile, that reality keeps growing into a monster that will _fucking devour_ you. Did you deserve something like this? Of course not. But is this also partly your fault? Of course it is. Because you are still that stupid, foolish, naïve girl you were a millennium ago. You need to stop running and grow up. Because he probably has. Four hundred years is a long time to think about what happened. So man up and face that _fucking_ monster that's reality. You'll look in the mirror and see an entirely new person once you do, because you'll realize that that reality was just yourself, and you were too stupid to see it before. That's my advice. Be civilized and act like an adult for once."

His harsh, true words brought tears to her eyes. He knew his anger was probably unnecessary, but she was really starting to piss him off, blaming others for what happened instead of herself. Granted, it wasn't _entirely_ her fault, but she needed to take some responsibility.

"Alfred…" she mumbled, holding herself together.

His hand on her wrist dropped. "Yes?"

With all the might she could muster, she slapped him clear across his face with her free hand. "That's for being so harsh!" The she placed her wine glass down, took his face in her hands, and kissed him with everything she had.

When she pulled away, her tone softened. "And that is for being so harsh." She stood, presenting herself before him before unpinning her long, brown hair and starting to unbutton her dress.

Alfred hesitantly set down his glass and the bottle, then removed Matthew's glasses. His cheek throbbed a bit, and his lips were still tingling from that sudden kiss. "What are you doing?" he asked as she reached the buttons at her waist.

"Giving a private show to my client," she answered in a casual voice. "You've paid me with hospitality. Now I get to give you what you want. That _was_ why you were at _Le Club Burlesque_ in the first place, _n'est-ce pas_?"

Alfred smirked. He was really starting to like this woman. "But of course, _ma chèrie_. By all means, _continuez_."

"_Avec plaisir_." ("With pleasure.") Elizaveta winked, and her dress fell to the floor.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "No crinoline or pantaloons?" he teased. "My, my, _someone's_ a little revealing."

But what he said was true. Underneath the lilac striped dress was nothing but any man's sexual fantasy. Her corset was a costume-like one, with red and black lace adoring it. Underneath it, a red garter belt held up thigh-high red stockings, and black pointed boots hugged her calves. Alfred was excited; no vampyre woman had ever undressed for him. His female human companions amused him, but Alfred eventually killed them. What was it like to wake up in a woman's arms? he wondered. Tonight he wanted to find out.

Alfred undid his ascot and tossed it aside, but Elizaveta stopped him before he could undress further.

"Let me do it," she whispered breathily, and she set his hands down slowly. "All good things to those who wait."

"In that case," he said, his lips ghosting over hers, "I'll need more wine."

Elizaveta smirked and, instead of kissing him, flicked her tongue over the tip of his nose, which made him squirm.

She giggled. "_Vous__ êtes __très amusant, mon petit garçon_." ("You are very amusing, my little boy.") Elizaveta stepped back and deftly undid the laces of her corset faster than any human girl could. Most of the time, Alfred had to assist other women, but Elizaveta's superhuman abilities allowed her to undo the impossible contraption.

"Am I now?" Alfred smirked and crossed his legs, enjoying the show.

She nodded, and tossed the corset to the ground brazenly, not caring about her exposure.

_Wow_, her breasts were pretty large. Alfred could feel his eyes magnetically drawn to them, and Elizaveta smiled, walking back up to him.

She placed the heel of her boot in his lap. "Help me?" he teased, the wine glass in her hand glinting.

Alfred chuckled. "Well, aren't you the minx," he commented, his hands moving to unlace her boots.

Once they were off, she had downed another glass of wine and she set that on the nightstand, moving to straddle Alfred's lap. He tried to move his hands up her flat stomach, but she smacked him away.

"So, you like to be in control?" he asked, amused. "You're used to it?"

"Only in the bedroom," she said, "when it is needed." Her hands worked on unbuttoning his vest and shirt. "Well, well," she observed. "No undergarments? Someone's a little revealing." Elizaveta threw his shirt and vest off Alfred in almost violent manner.

"Touché, _ma chèrie_," Alfred replied, smirking. "But I'm afraid your little act ends now." He gripped her hips tightly and swiftly switched their positions, Alfred straddling Elizaveta. "I'm in charge now," he growled, and he pressed his lips upon hers.

Luckily for Alfred, she did not dare fight back, knowing of his powers. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss, and his hands instantly began roaming her body, running sensuallyup and down her thighs and stomach.

Elizaveta pressed herself against Alfred, and they both moaned at the skin-on-skin contact. Her skin was so soft and smelled so sweet. He brought his lips down her jaw and neck, softly nipping at her skin. _Ah_, if only she were a human, he would have bitten her by now! But he knew better. Vampyre blood was corrupted and bitter, not delicious like a human's.

His lips roamed, over her shoulders, her collarbone, and finally her breasts. Bringing his hands up her stomach slowly, she moaned, throwing her arms back. "You seem so eager," she murmured.

"I've never been with anyone like you," he admitted, his tongue flicking out to lick an erect nipple, which caused her to react quite nicely. She arched her back into his touch, and they both wanted more.

He continued his teasing with her other breast, his hands touching her oh-so-perfectly. With each continually louder moan, he knew he hadn't lost his touch. Moving his lips lower, his hands quickly undid her garter belt, tossing it aside. He kept her stockings on; he quite liked how they accentuated her legs.

Alfred continued his downward trail, creating patterns with his tongue on her skin. Elizaveta arched into him and writhed in pleasure, her long hair spilled out over the fluffy pillows. Looking up, he noticed the delicious sight and smirked. He could not wait to wake up with his arms around her the next evening.

His hands moved down, and he shifted himself up, kissing her again. Her lips met his with great vigor, experienced and wanting. Alfred's right hand snaked under her red silk panties, already wet from previous minstrations.

She gasped as he inserted a finger inside her without any warning. "_S-scandal…_" she panted, moving up to lick Alfred's cheek.

Alfred smirked. "Not quite, my sweet," he replied. "_This_ is." He pushed in another finger with his first, and this caused Elizaveta to let out a high-pitched moan, which only added to the tightness in his slacks.

Using his left hand, he easily slid Elizaveta's panties down and off her legs, and he moved down again, his lips on her stomach. She kept moaning in response, and he could tell she wanted him to move further downward. However, he loved to tease, and he relished in having an older vampyre writhing beneath him. It gave him a sense of _power_, much like how he felt with Arthur.

He covered her womanhood with his mouth, his tongue moving inside Elizaveta along with his fingers. Her moans were _divine_, and Alfred could tell she was close as he greedily lapped up what she had to offer.

Thank God they were alone in the château. Who knew how Arthur and Françoise would react to this? Elizaveta was _loud_.

Alfred withdrew himself from her and gave her a long kiss, and she accepted it happily, tasting herself on his tongue. Alfred knew most of the women he was with hated this, but then again, Elizaveta was not like the others, not at all. She was ancient and worldly, and with each passing second she became more and more interesting to Alfred. He wanted to get to know her better after this. He _had_ to.

Elizaveta, not breaking the kiss, wrapped her left arm around Alfred's broad shoulders, pulling him closer. Her right hand traced a snake pattern down the contours of his torso, which caused him to moan weakly into her mouth. Her ministrations were full of knowing, he realized as she deftly undid his trousers and slipped the rest of his clothes off.

The heated kiss finally broke when Elizaveta's cunning hand worked on Alfred's arousal, stroking and teasing perfectly. He moaned loudly, wondering how the hell she knew how to act so damn well. Perhaps being an escort helped pay off, after all.

When that expert hand withdrew, she kissed him again passionately, wrapping her legs around his waist, which gave him the signal that she was ready.

Alfred pulled away and guided himself into her, savoring the gravelly moan that escaped her lips as she threw her head back in passion. _So warm and divine…._

His lips moved to leave marks on her skin that would heal within seconds, starting to move against her. He remembered each moan she released, each grind of her hips against his has she met his thrusts eagerly. He remembered the way she clutched onto him, making their embrace more intimate as her glistening skin pressed it against him. Tongues, teeth, fangs, and mouths clashed and fought with no outcome. Without his unnatural strength, though, Alfred knew he wouldn't have stood a chance against Elizaveta's aggressiveness.

Alfred kept his steady pace, containing himself. Elizaveta was driving him over the edge with how she moved and panted and made him feel worth something again. She was so mysterious, even in an intimate setting, and there was nothing Alfred wanted except to tame this wild vampyre. He saw knowledge behind those emerald eyes, eyes that reflected exactly what Arthur once had to offer.

_Arthur_. Why did he have to invade Alfred's thoughts so often? Why couldn't he stop thinking about him during these moments? Each time he closed his eyes, he saw them, blurred, but he _knew_—this was how they used to make love, Arthur grabbing at Alfred, because he was all Arthur needed and vice versa.

Then the image would blur again into Arthur and Françoise, embraced in a way that Alfred and Arthur had never been. Bondmates… lovers… fingers intertwined. Françoise's golden curls bounced as she arched into Arthur's touch like a hungry cat, and Alfred wondered why he had never been able to make Arthur feel as happy as he was with Françoise.

_A wonderful caricature of intimacy…._

He ran from the thoughts and shuddered.

What the hell had Elizaveta _done_? Those eyes brought him back to memories, memories he had suppressed for a long time.

"_What_…" he panted, feeling his release drawing closer. Why was she so amazing? he wondered.

She pulled him close, moaning sweet French and Hungarian intimacies in his ear, and he tried to understand, but even with his knowledge of French, all he could comprehend was her soft moans of his name, a chant that was beautiful enough to be a song.

"_Alfred… Alfred… Alfred…_"

He complied and moaned her name back as her nails raked softly up and down his glistening back, slick with sweat. In that moment he looked into her hypnotizing jade eyes again, he believed—_truly_ believed, just for a second—that he was unattractive. Elizaveta was so _beautiful_ with her angelic hazelnut waves, pale, perfect skin, plump, pink lips, and those contrasting _eyes_. He did not compare, with his stringy blonde hair and lifeless blue eyes.

"… _Dieu… s'il te plaît, mon cher…_" ("… God… please, my dear…") she panted, throwing her head back.

"_Quoi_?" ("What?") he asked breathily.

"_J'ai dit… ah…_" ("I said…") She arched a bit. "I said, '_Bring me to the stars and back…_'

"_Mm…_" Her voice was the epitome of perfection, and he immediately answered, thrusting faster. He wanted her so, _so_ badly… For just _once_, he wanted assured happiness…

She moaned wonderfully and kissed him again as he kept filling her, kept obeying her every suggestion. She had such authority over him without _trying_, and she was very well aware, he knew.

"I-I'm _close_…" she whispered, her moans elevating. "_Alfred_…"

_Let go,_ said Ivan.

_Darling…_ Arthur whispered. _Make me yours…_

_ You are my everything…_

_ My love…_

_ Mon petit garçon…_ Elizaveta mused seductively.

He moaned in frustration, clutching to Elizaveta desperately, kissing her as fiercely as he knew how.

"_Elizaveta…_"

That moan he gave sent her to where she wanted to go, and with a final cry of Alfred's name, she released around him, and Alfred came just seconds after. He collapsed beside her.

What had come over him? He ran a hand through his damp hair and wrapped his arms around Elizaveta. _Hold her and love her,_ said Françoise on the topic of bondmates. _Make her never want to leave you…_

Her warmth was amazing as she cozied up next to him. He would wake with this warmth, he realized, and she'd be his. It wasn't love, not yet, but he wanted it to be.

* * *

><p>"<em>Mmf…<em>" _Damn_, last night was amazing. Alfred sighed into his pillow, aware of the fact that it was the evening after. Elizaveta was here and…

... everything wasn't perfect.

She was _gone_.

Perhaps she was just freshening up? Yes, that had to be it. Yes, of course.

Minutes passed. No movement.

_Shit_. Alfred sat up and ran his hands through his hair.

_Shit!_

He reached on the nightstand for Matthew's glasses, but found a piece of Françoise's stationery instead.

Of course.

Mon cher_ Alfred,_

_ I would be lying if I said last night was a mistake. I do not regret my actions, nor will I ever. Last night was wonderful, and do not let my absence convince you otherwise. You are an amazing man, Alfred, and any vampyre would be lucky to be yours._

_ I, however, cannot be that vampyre, I regret to say. Your words plagued my dreams, and I knew what I had to do. Do not follow me, _mon cher_, because by the time you read this, I will be far away from France, on my way toapologize and make amends with Roderich._

_ Although it was harsh, it is also true. We cannot be together, Alfred. You are far too great for me, and one day you will meet someone equally as great as you are._

_ Do not fret, _mon petit garçon_. One day we will meet again. And on that day, you will see a far better me._

_ I hope that day is soon._

Avec l'amour_,_

_ Elizaveta_

Rejected. Yet again. Just like Arthur. Just like Ivan.

Suddenly, he felt sorrow and rage worse than when Matthew died. No one loved him. No one ever _would_ love him. He was an eternal soul, damned to live on the blood of humans.

It was the first time he'd ever hated what he'd become.

Angry tears ran down his face, hot with emotion. It was the first time he'd cried in over two hundred years, and the experience seemed entirely new and insane. Why him? Why could _he_ never find love, while every other vampyre seemed content?

Enraged, Alfred leapt out of the guest bed and flung the window open, ripping Elizaveta's letter into a thousand pieces. He was not mad at her—he was mad at himself for fucking everything up with Arthur. Had he not joined the war, they'd probably still be together, perhaps even _bonded_.

The pieces of the letter littered the streets of Paris like a light snowfall.

Sniffling, he turned, still crying. Now that he had started, he couldn't stop. This rage had taken his body and soul over, this anger consuming him. There was that wine bottle, useless now. The wine, half empty, flashed a blood red that mocked what _true_ blood was. In a flash, Alfred picked up the wine bottle and threw it into the vanity mirror with all his might, causing the glass from both fragile pieces into a thousand shards; the vanity itself was impacted by Alfred's strength and created an indent in the wall. Françoise would kill him, but he didn't care. He stared, still sobbing as the blood red liquid ran down the vanity and dripped onto the floor.

Still, it was not enough. Neither was crashing the wine glasses to the wall, destroying the precious crystal. Elizaveta. He had to forget her as soon as possible.

Fists clenched, he stopped and stared at the mirror. His cheeks were flushed, his tears still fresh. Even his fangs were bared, and they had punctured his lip, which soon healked. He was such a monster. How in the hell had he lived with himself for so long? He was ugly, and he should be destroyed.

Alfred stalked to the bed, the sudden urge to rip it apart strong. He placed a steady hand on the nightstand, only to find an object there.

Matthew's glasses.

And for a second, Alfred swore he saw his brother there, haunting him.

Grunting in pain, Alfred tore the glasses from the nightstand and held them high above his head, ready to smash them.

His fist was shaking.

But he couldn't.

Suddenly, they were made of fire, and Alfred tossed them safely on the bed. What the hell was he doing? The room was a _mess_. _He_ was a mess.

He couldn't take it anymore. He ran to the open window, threw his head out, and let out the longest, loudest scream that would echo in Paris, letting it all out. Let them all hear. He was a monster.

With that scream, it was all gone, all that pent-up anger.

Now it was sadness.

No one loved him.

No one ever _would_ love him.

He slowly stalked to the bed, shards of broken glass stabbing his feet. But he did not care. He merely threw himself onto the bed again face first and sobbed harder than he'd ever done.

Elizaveta was his last hope. Without her, he knew he would never find love.

"_Mon Dieu_!" Françoise's breathy voice was suddenly next to him. "Alfred… _what_—" She gasped sharply. "Oh my… what happened, _mon petit garçon_?" She brought her hands to his back and began to rub reassuring circles.

"D-don't call me that," Alfred whimpered, his voice muffled under the pillows.

"Alfred." Françoise sounded concerned, her voice high-pitched. "Darling, I heard the shattering… and that _scream_… Oh, _cher_, what has gotten into you?"

Her hands were soothing, but Alfred was still sobbing. Should he trust Françoise with this? Did he want to?

"What the—" Arthur. "What the bloody hell happened in here" He joined Françoise and Alfred on the bed. "And _what_ was that _ghastly_ scream?"

"It was Alfred, _mon cher_," Françoise explained, her hands still trying to relax Alfred. "He had… some sort of tantrum." She turned her full attention to Alfred, maternal as ever. "_Dis-moi, mon enfant. _(Tell me, my child.) Sit up and tell _Maman_ what happened."

Why she wasn't outraged, Alfred didn't know. Why he sat up, face streaked with tears, was a bigger mystery. He buried his face in Françoise's exposed neck and smelled her perfume. She had always tried to be like a mother to him, and finally, _finally_, he sensed a twinge of the late Mary Jones within her. The mere thought of his birth mother made him sob all over again, as this was what he would do to get Mary to comfort. Mary hugged him just like this, stroked his hair comfortingly and rubbed reassuring circles on his back.

"Alfred." Arthur sounded rather impatient. "Just answer Françoise so we can sort this all out."

"Oh, for God's sake, Arthur, he's _crying_," Françoise scolded. "He _never _cries." She turned her attention back to Alfred, whispering reassurances in French, relaxing him further. He felt just like a child, and he felt more at home.

"_Personne ne m'aime_," ("Nobody loves me.") he whispered into Françoise's neck.

"_Quoi_?" ("What?") Françoise was in disbelief. "_Tu crois cette folie? C'est bête. Tu n'es pas bête_," ("You believe this foolishness? It's stupid. You are not stupid.") she said firmly. "_Nous t'aimons, Alfred, mon cher. Ça, tu le sais._" ("We love you, Alfred, my dear. This you know.")

"_Je sais_." ("I know.") But he did not believe it. Françoise was one thing. Arthur was something else entirely. He was all that mattered.

"English, please," said Arthur sternly, crossing his arms.

Françoise clicked her tongue. "Alfred here believes no one loves him," she explained.

"_What_?" Even Arthur was in disbelief. He wrapped his arms around Alfred's stomach from behind, hugging him much like he used to. "That's not true, Alfred. _I_ love you. Perhaps not in that way, but you mean so much to me."

"Exactly." Alfred sighed. They just weren't getting it. "It's _because_ you don't love me on a more intimate level. _No one_ ever did. Not you, not Ivan, not Elizaveta. What's stopping me from staying up past dawn?"

"_No!_" Arthur and Françoise shrieked.

"_Mon cher,_ don't kill yourself over this. _S'il te plaît, mon enfant. Mon Dieu, s'il vous plaît_." ("Please, my child. My God, please.")

"It's not worth it, darling. It'll all get better. Just wait."

Alfred shot up from their parental grasp. "_Wait_?" he cried. "Arthur, I've been _waiting_ for over two hundred years. I want someone that can make me forget _you_. I can't even have se with a _woman_ without thinking about you! Do you know how fucking _frustrating_ that is? I've driven everyone I've cared about away, all because they weren't _you_. Ivan saw in my dreams I was unstable. Elizaveta thinks I'm a friendly psychologist, and now she's going back to her ex-bondmate, _because of me_. I try with humans, but it's impossible. Face it. I'm _doomed for eternity. I will never be bonded_."

Arthur's thick brows furrowed, and his green eyes met Alfred straight on. "Now you listen here, boyo," he sneered. "This was all your decision making. I would have never left if you weren't so loyal to your country. All these regrets are _yours_. Don't blame me. Because the sooner you accept this, the sooner you forget me. _I've moved on, Alfred_. Once you do, you'll find the right person."

It was the same lecture he gave Elizaveta the evening before.

Arthur continued, "_Did_ you regret joining the war? Answer truthfully."

Alfred already knew the answer. "_No_."

"Then the consequences you're facing were ones you've been well aware of," Arthur said simply. "This is what happens when you want love, Alfred. Not only do you have to fight forit, you have to know how to let go of lost causes. _I_ am a lost cause. I love Françoise, and I always will. Now, no lying, Alfred. Are you uncomfortable with us together?"

Alfred took a shaky breath. Never had Arthur asked this. What he would _say_ if Arthur asked him this, he knew many years ago. He wanted Arthur to be his back then. Now that Françoise had become a mother figure to Alfred, however, made him unsure. There was a part of him that wanted to let Arthur go, but the other part wanted things as they used to be, simple and perfect.

But perhaps Arthur was right. Perhaps people did grow through these experiences. He knew he had. Love had its ups and downs, and though he was sad at times, he was growing.

And Arthur and Françoise were _perfect_ for each other. They argued often, sure, but it was easy to see they were incredibly in love.

He loved seeing them together, too, he realized. No couple seemed so devoted, so beautiful and lovely.

He shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "You two were meant for each other."

The smiles they bared could not have been bigger. "You're on your way, darling," Arthur beamed, giving Alfred a big kiss on his cheek.

"Oh, we need to cheer you up, _mon cher_!" Françoise exclaimed. "Let's go out tonight!"

Oh, right. Alfred had ruine his reputation at the last club. "Er… the room?"

Françoise chuckled. "_Pas problème_," ("No problem.") she reassured. "You just need to pay for the repair."

Of course. And he probably owed Françoise a play by play of the evening before.

_Pas problème._

**Ending of chapter sucks, yes, but I just needed to END it. At least I know how to end the next chapter, so it's all good. I haven't really been in the writing spirit lately, so I'm sorry for the long wait. :/**

****Next Chapter:** Alfred meets his match with Natalia, who may quite possibly be the most devious vampyre ever created.**


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